


Silent Night

by Arlome



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Whumptober 2020, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: Early in their relationship, and even earlier in the morning, Phryne wonders what’s keeping Jack awake.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 136
Collections: MFMMwhumptober2020, Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my lovelies!   
> What, you thought you'll get Whumptober without an entry from yours truly?? Think again! The minute I saw the prompt "Sleep Deprivation", I just knew I had to have it!
> 
> This one was...hard to write. Not because it's difficult to have Jack battle insomnia, but because this subject hits a little too close to home. You see, quite ironically, my own sleep deprivation was getting in the way of this fic being written! But no matter - written it is, and you're getting the first chapter today and the second one soon enough. Such fun!
> 
> Many thanks to my darling betas, Aurora_Australis and Becs - you ladies suffer greatly for my art :D 
> 
> Onwards, friends!

In the end, it doesn’t take much to transform their waltz into the horizontal position.

Once she’s back on firm Australian soil, they touch more often than they ever did in the past. Lingering hands on perfectly fixed ties, strong fingers ghosting over bare arms. They share longing looks across paperwork-laden tables and crowded parlours, unable to do more due to meddling aunts and inconvenient working hours. If Phryne were more superstitiously inclined, she’d swear up and down that the world had it in for them, but barring such unlikely extremes, she just grits her teeth in frustration and soldiers on.

It’s getting rather ridiculous, really – there’s a coil winding deep in her belly, twisted and hot and threatening to snap at any charged moment, and Jack isn’t faring any better, she can tell. It’s the darkness of his eyes when he takes her in, the way he blinks slowly at her flirting – his generous mouth curling slightly downwards in indulgence – and when he takes his leave of her one quiet, whisky-fuelled evening, his lips daringly brush the corner of her mouth.

She’ll snap soon, she’s sure of it – or he will – and when they do,  _ oh,  _ the fallout is sure to be  _ spectacular _ .

Phryne’s nearing the absolute limit of her patience when Jack comes bearing gifts in the form of an invitation to supper and a following day-off. Promises of a succulent roast and baked goods are made in that almost sinfully low, resonating timbre that can make her go weak in the knees, and she wastes no time in assuring him of her delighted acquiescence.

There’s lamb and queen pudding and lovemaking in her future, and all is right with the world again.

Ultimately, they never make it to the roast – indeed, they barely make it past his foyer; she’s in his arms the moment he opens the door, her hat and coat falling to their feet, hands scrambling in an attempt to  _ touch, feel, bare _ more skin. Her lips are hot on his, her thighs wrapped around his narrow hips as he stumbles blindly towards his bedroom, his strong hands kneading her bottom with just the right amount of pressure. He’s pressed tightly against her, and she arches into him, biting at his lip and licking at his mouth. He curses lowly and she laughs – cackles, really – and admonishes him playfully for kissing his mother with such a foul mouth. His lips twist into that maddening half-smile she loves so very dearly, and suddenly Phryne finds herself landing on the bed, sprawled and open and laughing.

Jack’s pulling off his braces, unbuttoning his trousers; he’s down to his smalls in a matter of moments – nothing but gloriously tight white cotton, brown socks, and their equally brown garters. They’re taut and dark against his impressive calves, and she finds them oddly fetching for such a potentially awkward sartorial accessory. But, then again, anything looks exceedingly fetching on Jack.

Not one to be outwitted or outrun, she practically tears at her dress with eager fingers – her hands getting caught in the sleeves in her haste. No doubt recognising this opportunity for the rarity it is, Jack takes advantage of her brief incapacity; she feels his weight on the bed, his fingers in the waistband of her knickers, his mouth at her breast. By the time she’s free of her confining garment, his head disappears between her spread thighs.

Somebody moans – her, him, them; it doesn’t matter – there’s heat in her belly, and wetness in her cunt. His mouth is generous in more than size, and she cries at the intensity of the feeling it invokes. But she shouldn’t be surprised; not really – it’s still waters and wells deep, and passions in a heart as big as the Pacific Ocean. Jack Robinson is a never-ending source of mystery, and she a curious explorer.

Her fingers thread into his carefully pomaded hair, her thighs quiver against his sharp cheekbones. And there’s that climb – up, up, up – breathless, hurried, rushed.

_ Exquisite _ .

Nevertheless, it’s quite a shock when she climaxes – it’s fast and hard and leaves her shaking and gasping, her eyes wide and staring at the ceiling above. And through the blood in her ears and the thudding in her chest, she feels his hands at her ribs, his wet lips at her belly. He’s warm and hard and  _ man _ ; and everywhere at once. She shudders in delight when his hot breath tickles her skin as he kisses and licks his way up her body.

And when they join –  _ oh _ .

Hours later, Phryne’s roused from sleep by a sound that is both alien and familiar all at once. Disoriented and groggy, it takes her a moment to place herself – (in Jack’s surprisingly comfortable bed; alone) – and another to identify the source of her awakening. It’s music, and even though it’s faint and not completely recognizable yet, she can feel it – gentle, sombre, hauntingly beautiful; played by a masterful hand and with so much blood and sinew that she can feel it forming, coming to life around her. 

Phryne moves to scramble out of bed; the doona is thick and warm, the sheets smell of Jack and coitus. She inhales deeply, presses his pillow to her nose for a brief moment – the scent lingers still, even though the fabric is smooth and cold to the touch. He hasn’t lain here, by her side; not for a few hours, at least. She quells the rising panic in her belly and slips on the first garment she finds – a shirt, his, smelling faintly of eucalyptus, and bay rum, and just a smidge of bergamot – Jack, Jack,  _ Jack _ . Only the whisky’s missing. 

She makes her way down the dark corridor, bare feet silent against the cool floorboards. The volume of the music increases slightly as she approaches, allowing her to finally recognize the haunting piece, and she shudders. Despite the warmth of the parlour, despite the warmth in her heart, there’s chillness in her bones. Trust Jack to rattle her equilibrium in more ways than one.

He doesn’t notice her at first - not as absorbed in playing as he is - so she takes a moment to admire the figure he cuts in his concentration.

There’s soul, and blood, and brain matter in his music - an entire man’s worth of innards; and it breathes and dances and mourns softly - ever-fluid - but Jack’s entire form remains immobile, save for his hands. They glide over the keyboards – light, graceful; almost  _ too _ graceful for such large hands – and it seems to Phryne as if they barely land, barely touch the keys, before they’re off again, drifting and flying.

But she’s had enough of ghosts, and she wants to touch the living.

“‘ _ Piano Sonata no’ 14’ _ , Jack?” she inquires softly, her lips quirking in amusement as he startles and whirls around in his seat to face her. “Should I be jealous of the moon?”

His face is full of surprise at her presence; he clearly didn’t expect her to wake up. She watches as the bewilderment fades from his eyes and is replaced by guilt and remorse.

No, this simply will not do.

“Phryne – ” he begins, but she doesn’t let him finish.

“I don’t mind losing you to the piano once in a while,” she quips, sliding onto the piano bench next to him. “You play beautifully, Jack.”

Even in the darkness of the room, she can tell that he colours a little at the praise; blood dusting his sharp cheeks and creeping down his neck where it disappears beneath the collar of his singlet. She has first-hand knowledge of how far the flush goes now, and she squirms a little against the cool fabric of the bench at the recollection.

He clears his throat, runs his fingers on the keys idly, throws her a brief little smile that she identifies as one of his deflecting ones.

“I admit to having been partial to Schubert in the days of my youth,” he explains lightly, his fingers dancing in a fleeting rendition of the composer’s “ _ Serenade _ ”, “but after the war, Beethoven seemed to suit my mood better.”

“Hence the moon.”

“Hence the moon,” he agrees, fixing her with his clear gaze.

There’s tightness around his eyes, despite the quirk at the corner of his mouth, and she finds herself rising from her seat and sliding into his lap with graceful ease, her cool thighs bracketing his as she slides her arms around his neck.

“And does Herr Beethoven demand your attentions nightly?” she asks, her easy tone masking a rather serious question. But Jack only smiles and pulls her tighter against him by her bare bottom.

“It seems that tonight’s activities have left me too energised to sleep, Miss Fisher,” he sighs in mock-seriousness, his hands hot on the skin of her thighs, “and Ludwig is a compassionate man.”

He’s downplaying the reason for his restlessness, this much is certain; Phryne sees right through his evasion. There are words to read between the lines, she knows as much, but the language is still too foreign to discern. He’s clearly skirting around the truth, but she doesn’t linger on it, because he’s warm, and firm beneath her trailing fingers – taut muscles shifting under his singlet – and she wants him again, quite desperately. 

Phryne leans backwards, crushing a few keys together – not even blinking as they protest disharmoniously – and begins unbuttoning the shirt she's wearing. Jack’s eyes follow the path of her fingers in focused intensity.

"Play me instead?" she offers coquettishly.

And he does. 

* * *

  
  


They waltz deliberately – slow and close and deep; and it’s different but endearingly the same, fluid in its fixture, and nothing short of exhilarating.

It surprises her how easily it comes, this dance between them; how right it feels, how non-constricting. And when everything she had feared for aeons does not come to pass, she realises with a pleasant jolt that she is happy – truly happy – perhaps for the first time in years.

They spend most of their nights together at Jack’s place, strangely enough, and she finds – to her great astonishment – that she rarely misses the luxury of her bed, or her bath, or her butler, on these occasions. There’s something thrilling in being utterly alone with him; the quiet of the house in the early morning, the warmth of the wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet as she comes upon him in the kitchen, naked as the day she came into this world. He smiles easily here, in this fortress of his, and it’s always wide and open and warm.

The sex is tremendous – it’s wild and tender, as loud as a brothel and as silent as the grave – it’s everything and nothing and all that’s in-between. His breath against her neck, bellies pressed; her keening cries almost desperate, his fingers eager on her sweat-slicked skin. And sometimes, when the mood strikes her, she likes to scream on purpose, to moan exaggeratingly – his name tumbling theatrically from her lips – just to feel him chuckling deeply, just to taste his fingers on her lips, hear his rugged shushes in her ear.

They waltz, and it’s slow and deliberate, and so very deep. And she finds that she’s quite ruined for other dances.

A few weeks into their dance they encounter a rather difficult case. It proves to be quite the puzzle – nothing sticks or fits quite right, there are loose ends at every turn – and they spend a full evening, huddled in her parlour, trying to unravel the mystery.

There’s a fire in the hearth, and whisky on her tongue, and Jack is being particularly clever; desire pools in her belly, white-hot and demanding – she’s had enough of brainstorming for one night.

She drops to her knees before his slightly spread thighs and smiles wickedly. Even now, even after weeks of being intimate, he flushes a lovely red at the prospect of her pleasure. But his hooded eyes shine in the dim light of her parlour, dark and wanting, and his strong fingers trace the contours of her jaw almost reverently. Then, there are kisses to his mouth, needy and ravenous; she feels his teeth under her lips.

Jack groans a little at the contact, and she shivers, pressing a bit further into him.

“Shall we take this investigation to a more private location?” Phryne breathes into his ear, her lower belly tightening at the quiet gasp that escapes his throat. 

She rises fluidly to her feet, as graceful as ever, and offers him her hand. His dark eyes fall on her outstretched fingers.

“Come upstairs, Jack.”

He follows.

Her bed is empty.

Phryne frowns. She clearly remembers falling asleep with a warm, lean, fine figure of a man trapped under her limbs. A bleary-eyed glance at the clock on her nightstand causes her to groan and drop her face back into the pillows. It’s abominably early – half-past-three in the bloody morning – and the reason for her rude departure from dreamland is abundantly clear.

Her bed is empty. And cold. She really wishes it didn’t bother her as much as it does.

A quick assessment of the room leads her to conclude that Jack hasn’t fled into the night in some sort of propriety-fuelled panic. For one thing, she can see his shoes tucked away under the chase. Another brief scouring reveals his tie thrown haphazardly over her dressing table, his waistcoat swinging off the door handle.

So, he’s still here - but where?

Phryne slinks out of bed and shrugs into her dressing gown. If the stubborn, self-deprecating mountain won’t come to her…

She finds him in her library, nose buried deep in a book; a squint at the title causes her to smirk delightedly.

“I never took you for a Fielding fan, Inspector,” she says softly when Jack glances up to regard her with a rather remorseful countenance.

Phryne takes a moment to appreciate his dishevelled state; he’s wearing his trousers - braces, and all - but little else. The shirt she joyfully unbuttoned but a few hours ago is open to mid-chest, revealing the bare upper portion of his torso. No singlet, no socks.

Jack clears his throat and closes the book on his finger, turning it upwards to better inspect the cover.

“I find I rather enjoy the dry wit,” he rumbles, voice hoarse from disuse.

Phryne enters the room and comes to stand over his armchair.

“And Tom Jones? Not too naughty for you?” she asks, threading her fingers through his unkempt curls, causing him to close his eyes and sigh at the contact. “Why are you up, darling?”

Jack angles his face upwards and kisses her inner wrist.

“It’s probably just the case keeping me awake,” he murmurs against the soft skin, and Phryne frowns.

It all sounds plausible enough – a puzzling case, an ever-working mind; she can see how the two might clash. There’s every possibility that the unsolved mystery is making him restless, keeping him up at all hours.

And yet.

Something in his tone – or, perhaps, it’s his closed eyes – is giving her pause.

“Are you sure?” she asks softly, her fingers dropping from his hair to trace the shell of his ear.

Jack opens his eyes and blinks slowly.

“Positive.”

Phryne understands. Whatever it is that’s bothering him, they’re done talking about it. The finality in his voice is indisputable.

It can’t be helped; the interrogation will just have to keep. Now is the time for distraction.

She takes a step backwards, fiddles with the tie that guards her modesty with its silky embrace.

“You should have woken me, Inspector,” she purrs, changing gears and tactics, “I’d have worn you out.”

Jack’s eyes travel down her body slowly, and heat rises in Phryne’s belly. She unties her gown, shrugs it off her shoulders, holds her breath as it cascades down her body in a shower of silk.

He places the book down on the side-table rather deliberately, taking the time to insert his bookmark – a torn page out of his little notebook – and adjust it properly. Phryne rolls her eyes; for such a noble man, he can be quite the smug arse.

But then he’s reaching for her – large, warm hands on her hips; soft lips on her belly – and pulls her close enough to him that she can see the top of his head. He slouches in his seat a little, encourages her to add her weight to the armchair; her knees press against the armrests from within. His mouth travels past her navel and down the slope of her lower belly, and then much lower still.

After a while, she braces herself on the back of the armchair for support.

Distraction indeed. 


	2. Chapter Two

“I suspect Jack’s not sleeping,” she says one evening to Mac over drinks in her parlour, eyeing her untouched cocktail in focused contemplation. 

The rather dramatic declaration follows one discovery too many of the rather dishevelled man in question, traipsing through the house in the small hours of the night, a ready excuse on his tongue. 

The latest incident is what finally sets all of Phryne’s bells a-ringing. Another solitary night in his bed, another ungodly hour to be awake without the excuse of good music or sex; she comes upon him in the corridor, his bare feet hardly making any sound as he walks. When she asks, he maintains that, once again, it is a case that is keeping him from his bed, and the files under his arm seem to support his claim. But the late hour and the haunted look in his eyes cause her to frown, and she takes the papers from his hands and leads him to lie next to her on the chaise in his parlour; neither of them sleeps much that night.

Mac raises her eyes from her whisky and fixes Phryne with her no-nonsense glare.

“Don’t be silly, darling,” she says, dangling the nearly empty tumbler from her fingers. “The man is not made of steel. Like the rest of mankind, he must sleep to function.”

But Phryne frowns at a spot just left of the doctor’s ear, unconvinced.

“I’m telling you, Mac,” she mutters, her mind half drifting to that almost eerie look in his eyes, “there’s something odd about the whole thing. For one, he’s the first man I’ve encountered who is not completely worn out by love-making — ”

“Spare me the details, sweetheart,” Mac interrupts, grimacing so exaggeratedly that Phryne rolls her eyes at the display. “I still need to work with your Inspector. He happens to be one of the few men I actually like, please don’t ruin him for me.”

Even now, knowing of the grudging fondness her friend harbours for Jack, Phryne finds her lips stretching into a little smile at the obvious praise. It takes a special man indeed to earn the respect and friendship of Elizabeth Macmillan. 

She shakes her head a little to dislodge the stray thought and shrugs.

“And still…” she sighs, the fingers of her free hand idly picking at a loose thread in her armchair’s upholstery. 

The truth is, it bothers her, this nocturnal mystery that she is yet to solve. And it goes beyond the chase, beyond the thrill of uncovering the truth - it sails past any selfish need to  _ know.  _ If she’s being perfectly honest, it has very little to do with detecting, and everything to do with the  _ detective _ .

Mac takes her in with a calculated look on her face. After a few moments of silence, she seems to reach some inner conclusion; she places her glass on the side-table and leans forward, her elbows pillowed on her knees.

“You’re genuinely worried.”

Phryne rolls her lips together and nods. 

“I am. I’m… exceedingly fond of him, Mac.”

The doctor snorts and leans back in her seat.

“You’re in love with him. I have eyes, you know.” 

When Phryne remains silent and doesn’t jump to contradict her, Mac whistles lowly.

“Why, as I live and breathe…” she mutters but drops the teasing at the unamused look on her friend’s face. “Alright. Look, darling – there’s an easy solution to this. Another tumbler of whisky added to your nightcaps and he’ll be snoring in your ear the entire night.”

Despite her almost melancholy disposition moments ago, Phryne finds herself brightening up considerably at the suggestion. Mac may not be completely serious – she highly doubts ‘ply your lover with drink until he faints’ is sound medical advice – but she must admit that the idea has some merit. At the very least, this way, Jack would finally get a proper night of sleep. She takes a healthy gulp of her forgotten cocktail.

“You know, Mac, I think you’re onto something there,” she smiles at her friend, who rolls her eyes almost gratefully.

“Brilliant. Now, can we go back to our vices?” 

Phryne throws her head back and laughs throatily.

“Gladly.”

She toasts Mac with her half-empty drink. She has a plan now. 

* * *

He arrives at her house for their traditional post-case nightcap, a bottle of good gin in hand. 

“Jack!” she exclaims, peering at the label with avid interest. “What’s this?”

His generous mouth twists into the familiar half-smile she adores, and his eyes crinkle just a little at her enthusiasm.

“My humble contribution to tonight’s celebratory drinks. I take it you approve?”

She does; most heartedly - both of the man and of the drink - and she lets him know as much by kissing him soundly and relieving him of the bottle, encouraging him to enter her parlour with her own smiling eyes. 

The room is warm and softly lit; a fire burning in the hearth, the low table lamps casting an intimate glow. The gramophone in the corner is cooing and crackling a smooth jazzy number, mellowing the air around them with mellifluous tunes. Jack pours them both a drink and comes to lean against the mantelpiece. Phryne doesn’t hide her appreciation of the figure he cuts. She accepts the drink from his hand, their fingers brushing, and drops quite elegantly into the nearest armchair.

Jack’s eyes follow her movements fondly.

“To another mystery solved, then,” he rumbles, saluting her with his full glass. 

Phryne smiles. He’s in an indulgent mood tonight - eyes shining, mouth wanting; the entire force of his intensity bearing down on her in the most pleasant of ways. His cheeks hollow a little with hunger as he drinks, as he stares her down, and she has to bite the inside of her own cheek to stop herself from pouncing from her seat. A most auspicious start to their night, indeed.

“To teamwork,” she adds and downs her own drink in one go.

Jack’s eyes widen at the display.

“In a hurry, Miss Fisher?” he asks, tilting his head a little and smiling. 

Oh, but she loves seeing him so relaxed in her parlour, looking like he belongs nowhere else; how she adores the easy posture of his body.

“I might be,” she purrs, pulling her knees towards her chest and curling around them. Humming softly, she extends one arm and shakes her empty glass a little in his direction. “Pour us another one, Jack, and let’s drink to justice!”

He complies good-naturedly, refilling both glasses, and when he comes over with the drinks in hand, Phryne pulls him down to sit on the armrest. 

“Come here”, she mutters, grasping at his tie with her free hand, and he follows, kissing her smiling mouth with wet lips.

“You wanted to drink to justice,” he reminds her softly, and she releases the fabric, allowing him to straighten in his seat.

“So I did! To justice, then!”

A quirk of his lips, and depth in his eyes; spirits sloshing in a swaying glass, and light eternal.

“And to truth,” he suggests, bringing the whisky to his mouth. 

“To truth,” she echoes both toast and drink, her eyes never leaving his.

As the evening progresses and the level of beverage consumed spans an entire bottle of whisky and half a bottle of gin, the toasts obtain a more poetic, flowery nature. Somewhat inebriated salutes to adventure and the moon are made before Jack finally calls it a night, shaking his glass almost mournfully, the remnants of the drink swirling within.

“Last toast, Miss Fisher, make it count,” he sighs, and his words are a little slurred, but the drink in his hand is stable enough. 

Phryne rises to her feet a little unsteadily but refuses to accept the hand he speedily offers her. She lifts her glass in a final salute and leans closer, smiling.

“To pleasure,” she toasts dangerously close to Jack’s ear.

Inhibitions gone, walls lowered, he kisses her with so much ardour that she drops her tumbler to the rug, the little drink left in there spilling into the fabric. She moans into his open mouth and grasps at the lapels of his jacket, grounding herself to the moment and to him. When he pulls back, her eyes stay closed for a few moments longer, her heart thudding.

“I believe that’s my cue,” he mutters a little self-deprecatingly and smooths an errant lock of hair from her face. His words seem to have quite the sobering effect, and Phryne blinks.

“Jack!” she exclaims when he takes a few steps from her, nearly stumbling towards the door, “you cannot possibly mean to leave!”

“I have an early morning, Phryne,” his slightly stammering voice echoes from the empty foyer, “I have to submit the b-blasted case report before - before lunch and… I - I’m yet to write it.”

When she catches up to him, he’s already donned his hat and coat - if somewhat askew - and he stands by the door, hands in his pockets, a tiny smile on his face.

“Don’t be cross,” he nudges good-naturedly, taking a somewhat unsteady step in her direction, “you know as well - as, as well as I that neither of us will get much sleep if I stay.” 

Fair enough, Phryne has to concede - but she doesn’t have to like it. She crosses her arms and leans against the door frame, as much to make a point as to stop the room from tilting sideways.

“I’m not cross, I’m worried,” she points out, jutting her chin in his slightly swaying direction. “You’re in no fit state to be driving, Inspector. And before you say anything else,” she adds, in case he plans on getting another excuse in edgeways, “you have spare clothes here, from the last time you stayed the night. And a razor.”

Jack stands gaping like a fish for enough moments to make it look comical, and Phryne rolls her lips together to stop herself from laughing. Sensing the moment he wavers, she glides closer, smiling at the way he shakes his head at her.

“Phryne,” he begins, almost pleading.

But she’s always known how to drive a very hard bargain. Determined, and quite inebriated herself, she slips her fingers up his nape, thumbs brushing his jawline. Jack groans somewhere deep in his chest and closes his eyes.

"No, you stay," she sighs, arching into him like a stretching feline.

She presses her mouth to his, licks the seam of his pliant lips. There is something very decadent about tasting the whisky and gin off his tongue.

She feels the moment he breaks deep in her belly. His strong hands - hot and capable - slide down her back and palm her buttocks, hoisting her up. It's exhilarating, to see him so discomposed, so unhinged - his proverbial buttons undone - as he pushes her against the wall of her foyer, surprisingly steady, his evident interest in what's happening between them pressing at her core.

Their kisses are sloppy and wet, and when his lips leave hers and travel down the column of her neck, the sound that leaves her throat can only be described as guttural. 

“Jack!” she breathes, head tilted backwards, mouth open and smiling. “Jack - not here! We will give poor Mr Butler an apoplexy if he sees us!” 

He chuckles right into the hollow of her throat.

“Wouldn’t want to traumatise Mr Butler,” he agrees, licking at her clavicle. Her fingers falter and dig into his shoulders deep enough for him to feel it, and he groans, pushing them off the wall, and staggering towards the parlour. Once inside, he kicks the door closed behind them in a fit of steadiness that makes Phryne whoop excitedly and spins them around, leaning her against the wall again. 

“I should get you drunk more often!” she cries when he tilts his pelvis into hers, and he lowers her to ground, palms still pressed into her buttocks.

“Is this your way of saying you’re unsatisfied with my sober attentions, Miss Fisher?” he breathes against her mouth, his words steadier than before, and she shakes her head almost frantically, before realising that he’s smiling.

Why, the smug  _ bastard _ .

“Heavens, no, Inspector!” she simpers, pushing her breasts into his waistcoat and pulling him to her throat. “Merely pointing out how thrilling it is to have you so… unencumbered.” 

Jack straightens and takes a step back. Phryne realises with a sudden thrill that there’s a rather wicked glint to his eyes.

“I’ll show you ‘unencumbered’,” he rasps, and she shivers quite visibly. The voice on this man! 

He drops to his knees, coat and hat and all, and kisses her rather filthily through her trousers. Phryne laughs throatily in wild delight. Her fingers drop to her waistline, fast at work on the series of tiny buttons at her hip, and soon enough she's dragging the garment, knickers included, down her legs. She almost howls when he French-kisses her clit.

There's something about watching that familiar hat bobbing between her thighs, but she'd rather fist her fingers in his ridiculously coiffed hair, so she doffs the Fedora and flings it across the parlour. She feels, rather than hears his chuckle, and shudders a little at the vibrations.

"I'll be needing my hat back, Miss Fisher," he mumbles against her cunt, his tongue flicking her clit lazily.

"Later," Phryne gasps and presses his face closer. "Much later."

He moans his assent and applies himself to the task of pleasuring her with gusto and an almost single-minded precision. There’s that famous appetite at work, there’s that deep, sensual desire that effervesces beneath the surface of his skin - there’s nothing staying him now, not even propriety - and the sloppy press of his kisses, and the deep rumbles of his groans, send her flying within seconds. When she comes down from her high, his face is upturned, chin propped on her hip, and his smile is bright and unguarded.   
  
She's overcome with fondness, gripped with affection; her fingers trace the sharp edges of his cheeks.

"Jack”, she breathes, her heart thudding wildly in her chest as he turns his face to kiss at her fingertips. “Come upstairs, darling.”

They stumble through the door to her boudoir, giggling and groping, all hands and teeth and tongues. There’s enough alcohol in their bloodstream to make the clothes removal awkward and fumbling - her blouse gets caught on one of his cufflinks, his trouser leg snags on the clasp of his sock garter - but they’re beyond caring. 

There’s laughter in their eyes and in their mouths and in their chests; laughter in their movements, laughter in their sweat. They fall onto her bed, entwined and slipping, their foreheads bumping awkwardly. Jack chortles, and Phryne cackles. They’re loud enough to rouse the entire household. He shushes her, she shushes him, and kisses mix with mirth and gentle touches. She arches from beneath him, untamed and ready, hands clutching at his arms, thigh slipping up his hip - she’s almost there already, and flying higher than before -

So, naturally, that’s when Jack decides to start abusing poetry.

“ _ Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day _ ’ – ” he rumbles into her hair, fingers sliding down her belly, blunt nails scratching softly at her skin, “no, you’re right, too cliché, better try something else –” his palm presses into her hip bone, sliding towards her inner thigh, “ _ My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the stars’ _ – no, hang on, wrong celestial body – ”

Phryne laughs almost wildly at the inebriated attempt at Shakespeare and tightens her thighs around his torso. She can feel his mouth stretching into a grin against her collarbone and rolls her eyes fondly – best to curb that rising smugness before he decides to further mutilate the Bard and his writings.

She pushes his head downwards and presses into his open mouth, gasping, elated, when his lips close around a nipple.

“If you say anything about my ‘ _ dun breasts _ ’ I’ll have your guts for garters, Jack Robinson,” Phryne moans at a particularly clever twist of his tongue. She can feel his answering snort all the way to her spine.

From here on it’s messy as only intoxicated love-making can get. Their rhythm is a little off at first - she goes too fast, he slips out of her twice - they stagger and lurch and  _ laugh,  _ fingers sliding and nails biting. His nose tickles her neck enough to make her guffaw inelegantly, and he holds her a little tighter at the sound, kissing her almost reverently through the gleeful tremors of her body.

It’s not perfect, it’s not particularly pretty, either - there are no elegantly arched necks, or fluid muscles shifting; they’re both straining, red in the face - but it is all the better for it. She feels him deep within her - not just in body - he’s under her skin, and in her veins, behind her ribs; and she is not afraid. There’s dampness in her eyes that would mortify her were she with any other man. But Jack - he feels it too. 

"I love you, Phryne," he mutters into her hair, his tongue and heart loosened with drink. "God help me, I love you.” 

She holds him close, and presses into him -  _ and I, and I, and I - _ she thinks she says out loud. 

They break - one after the other - spent, and exhausted and so very easy. When Phryne kisses Jack sweetly and excuses herself as she slips out of bed, his hand lingers on her wrist.

“Hurry back,” he rumbles, his lovely mouth set in his trademark half-smile.

“You won’t even notice I’m gone,” she promises. 

When she returns five minutes later, he’s fast asleep.

  
  


Something yanks her out of sleep. 

She’s disoriented, groggy; there’s not enough sleep in her system to process what’s happening straight away. A quick fumble on the nightstand for Jack’s wristwatch alerts her to the time - 2:35 am; too early to be awake after an evening of heavy drinking - her head falls back against the pillows, a tired groan escapes her lips.

And that’s when she hears the sound.

A few grunts - not unlike the cries of some wounded animal - followed by a pitiful moan, growing in intensity and sound with every passing second pierce the silence of her dark bedroom. Phryne wheels around, head and heart thudding painfully, the blood in her veins turning to ice.

Lying next to her, Jack’s uneasy form is twisted in the bedsheets, his limbs jerking, neck straining. His eyes are shut, brow furrowed, and she can see liquid pooling at the corner of his fluttering eyelid, illuminated and glistening by the filtered moonlight. He’s shaking and moaning, teeth clamped so tightly together that she fears he might break his jaw; his chest heaving, fists clenched. It doesn’t take a genius to understand what he’s seeing.

“Jack,” Phryne chokes, her own eyes wet, her own fingers flexing. “Jack, wake up.”

He turns his head from her, the nape of his neck exposed to her horrified gaze, his hair curling, wet with sweat. The raspy, broken moans get louder.

She lurches forward, throws herself at him, shakes his shoulder, presses a hand over his chest - anything,  _ anything  _ to pull him out. His skin is clammy, cold to the touch; he smells of anxious sweat and terror.

“Please wake up,” Phryne groans into his skin, her mouth slipping, her teeth scraping. She realises that she’s crying openly, recognises the kindred spirit in him. So this is why -  _ this is why - _ and she plied him with drink, and made him stay...

He gasps himself into consciousness and she feels his heart thudding as heavy as shelling in his chest. 

She presses herself against his side, holding his body close. Under her arm, under her breasts, she can feel him growing rigid with awareness.

“You’re home,” she kisses his wet temple; adds the moisture from her own eyes into his skin. “Jack, you’re home; you’re safe.”

A moment of silence, then two, then three, then - “I’m sorry,” he croaks, the breath leaving him in an anguished groan.

“No, no,” she protests, kissing his cheek, his hair, her fingers faltering over his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Don’t apologise, darling. Never apologise for this.”

“I woke you up,” he mutters mournfully, his voice slowly growing back into itself, “I didn’t mean - I never wanted - ”

“You silly man,” she sighs, pressing her lips against his shoulder. She can’t stop touching him, can’t stop feeling the life under his skin. “Is this why you wouldn’t sleep?”

She feels him nod, his chin bumping the top of her head.

“How often does this happen, Jack?”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his loose hair, frowns at the dampness.

“I really cannot say, Phryne,” he begins, and she’s relieved to hear the tremble almost gone from his deep voice. “It comes and goes. I can usually tell when a bad night is coming, but - ”

“You didn’t want to risk it.”

He nods, sufficiently chagrined. 

Silly man. Silly, dear, beloved man.

“Jack…” she sighs, her fingers spreading over his slowing heart. “You don’t need to hide this. Not from me... ”

He turns to regard her for the first time since he woke up.

“Rosie… I - I’d wake her, with the thrashing,” he sighs, blinking slowly and wetting his lips. Phryne reaches between them, clasping his hand. 

Jack lowers his eyes and runs his thumb over her knuckles almost hesitantly. 

“It frightened her, this - “ he continues, stumbling a little over the jumbled explanation. Her heart stutters when he bites his bottom lip, hard. “I never wanted you to - “ 

“You don’t need to protect me from your demons,” she interrupts, whispering, and brings their entwined fingers to her lips, “I know them intimately.” 

Even in the darkness, she can see his face transforming, the wariness sliding off and being replaced by bone-deep sorrow and exhaustion.

“I keep seeing my best mate - ” his voice falters, breaks at the end, and Phryne understands. Some horrors cannot be unseen, not even a decade later. 

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his cheek, his eyelids. He does not deserve this - this beautiful, noble man; he does not deserve this deep scar in his chest, in his guts - but then again, none of them does.

She kisses the shell of his ear. “You’re home, you’re safe. I’ll treat your demons with respect. Like an old friend.” 

Jack presses her to his side and she curls against him. He’s still a little damp with perspiration, but Phryne doesn’t give a fig – it’s not the first time she has had his sweat on her skin. She breathes in the scent of his terrors, of their amorous coition, and faint remnants of drink, and she holds him just a little bit tighter, her fingers spreading over the now steady beating of his heart. 

He stirs under her, presses his lips to her forehead, and she feels her own heart begin to riot in her chest. What is it about this man that unravels her so utterly?

“ _ And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare _ ,” he suddenly breathes into her hair, his voice hoarse with something more than sleep and horrors, “ _ as any she belied with false compare _ .” 

The couplet - properly quoted and endearingly sincere - takes her by surprise and borrows her very breath for a few precious seconds. Trust Jack Robinson not to let misquoted Shakespeare lie. 

More than a little begrudgingly overcome, Phryne kisses his shoulder and curves her hand around his rib. It’s time to put the demons to rest for the night. 

“And you’ll do well to always remember that, Inspector,” she quips, striving for coy amidst the sombre - after all, 1918 is over a decade in the past, and her eyes are on the future. 

It works; she feels his smile against her skin.

“I’ll make a note of it in my diary, Miss Fisher,” he answers in kind, and she surprises herself by laughing quite easily. 

What is it about this man that unravels her so utterly?

She doesn’t give a fig – she quite enjoys it that he does.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack is quoting - or rather, attempting to quote - good ol' Will. He starts off with sonnet 18, rightfully proclaims it a bit too overused, and proceeds to mutilate the wonderful sonnet 130.  
> The right quote goes: "My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun." The couplet at the end of the chapter belongs to the same sonnet. 
> 
> And that's all she wrote, my friends.   
> Now, go to sleep, the lot of you!

**Author's Note:**

> The 'Piano Sonata no' 14' Jack is playing so wonderfully is, of course, the famous 'Moonlight Sonata' - Phryne's just showing off and being clever :P  
> The book he's reading is "The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling", by Henry Fielding.


End file.
